


Ever the journalist

by deathorthetoypiano



Category: The Hour
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathorthetoypiano/pseuds/deathorthetoypiano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spain, April 1937. </p><p>In which Randall gets jealous, and Lix is a bit slow on the uptake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ever the journalist

“Earth to Randall?”

Randall blinked and looked across the table to where another journalist, Teddy, sat.  Between them were numerous empty glasses and bottles, and Randall was briefly surprised that they had managed to drink so much.  Then again, it always surprised him.  “Sorry, I was miles away.”

Teddy raised an eyebrow.  “I’d say more like twenty feet,” he remarked, glancing pointedly over his shoulder towards the shadowy end of the bar.  Randall followed his gaze, despite knowing exactly where he was looking.  Of course Teddy was right.  He had been watching Lix Storm ever since she had arrived, over an hour ago.  He had watched as she chatted with the bar staff, as she amassed a group of young Spanish men and women around her, holding court in their midst, laughing in that way she had that was utterly captivating.  Her new friends were clearly as much in her thrall as Randall, and his jealousy burned in his belly like a city on fire, angry and all-consuming and distracting.  As he watched, Lix moved closer to a particularly pretty Spanish girl, and reached up to push a curl out of her eyes before leaning forward to whisper something in her ear.  The girl laughed and blushed a little, and Randall was oddly pleased to notice a young man standing behind her, bristling at Lix, who was clearly completely oblivious.  He dragged his gaze back to Teddy, who grinned.  “I think you, my friend, need another drink.”

Randall sipped the new tumbler of whisky and began rearranging the empty glasses and bottles on the table before him, setting them into regimented rows and turning them so that he could see none of their imperfections.  He managed, sort of, to keep up with their conversation, but it was gentle and light-hearted and did not require much input from him, so he failed to notice when Teddy stopped speaking mid-sentence, until another voice cut through the smoky air.

“Mr Brown, what are you doing?” 

His head snapped up.   “Miss Storm,” he greeted, scrambling to his feet.  She slunk past him with a small smile, brushing her fingertips over his wrist, knocking the table with her hip and ruining the order he had found from the chaos of the glasses.  He suspected it was all on purpose.  “Can I get you a drink?” he offered, still on his feet, and when he returned from the bar with three glasses, it was worth the discomfort of pining for her for over an hour, just to see her smile, to feel her fingers brush against his as she took it, to watch as she settled into her seat like a cat.  He swallowed, and was grateful for Teddy, who chatted casually with her to give Randall a few moments to compose himself, before getting to his feet and apologising to them both, tipping his hat to Lix as he drained his glass and left.  As he disappeared into the crowd, Randall felt his control begin to slip, and started rearranging the bottles again, until he felt her hand on his.

“Mr Brown, please, stop.”  She was looking at him with such concern that it made him want to run, to hide, to be anywhere but this close to her.  It made him feel so exposed, so understood, that he could barely stand it.  “I came to talk to you, but you seem so distant,” she complained.  “Are you alright?”

His muttered “no” slipped out before he could stop it, and he was unsure which of them was more surprised.  In for a penny, in for a pound, as his incredibly irritating aunt was fond of saying.  “I got jealous,” he admitted after a long, horrible pause, during which her eyes burned into him until he struggled not to squirm beneath the intensity of it.  “That girl, you never look at me like you looked at that girl.”

She sat back, then, her back hitting the faded velvet with a soft thud, her hands dropping into her lap and falling completely still for what he was certain was the first time he had ever seen, and she stared at him wordlessly.  He tried desperately to read her, to see what she was thinking, but all he could see was that she was astounded.  He was concentrating so hard on her that he flinched slightly when she spoke.  “I had no idea.”

He coughed.  “Everyone knows,” he informed her, his voice low and bitter, catching in his throat with the smoke and the whisky, sounding harsh even to him, but unavoidably so.  “Everyone knows that I can’t concentrate when you’re around, that everything dims in comparison to you.  I’m the laughing stock, such a fool to fall this hard for someone so _damned_ unattainable as you.  They all see it, and they hate me for it.  So forgive me, Miss Storm, when I say that I don’t believe you.”  He got to his feet, too hurt and upset to carry on talking to her, to even be chivalrous enough to make sure she got home alright.  All he wanted was to get away from her, from the truth that he had never voiced before, from the yawning cavern that he had surely blasted between them, struggled through the swell of bodies and out into the street.  He lit a cigarette and set off in the direction of the place he was calling home – a room in a crumbling building, above a cafe, rundown but in a quiet, relatively safe neighbourhood.  He hated the thought of living within the chaos.  It took him a little longer to get anywhere than the rest of the team, sometimes too late to catch the slide from discontent into violence, but it was a small price to pay to be fairly sure that he would still have somewhere to go back to, even on the worst days, and besides, the extra walking kept him a little fitter, and meant that he knew the wider area of the city a little better.  Feeling safe ultimately made his work easier.

He had long finished his cigarette when he noticed the footsteps behind him.  Rather than look around or speed up, he paused to light another, listening hard.  The footsteps did not stop, which suggested that he was not being followed, so he continued, strolling as he had before through the quiet streets, but as the footsteps drew nearer, he started to worry, regretting his adamant refusal to carry a gun.

“I do wish you lived nearer to everything else, Mr Brown.”  Her voice was clear in the stillness of the night.  Randall stopped dead, and counted to ten, before turning to face her, glaring.

“Why are you following me?” he asked, partly angry at her, and partly irritated at himself for being afraid.  She looked so beautiful in the dusty moonlight, but he steeled himself, determined not to notice.

She had continued to approach him, and even as she came close enough to touch him she kept going, moving further into his personal space than anyone had in so long that he hardly knew how to react.  He held his breath, counted the bricks on the wall in front of them, counted the open shutters and the closed ones, trying his best to keep calm.  She shifted a little closer, her arm brushing against his and staying there, her fingers finding his wrist, creeping downward until she laced them through his, her knuckles bumping over his, clumsy yet familiar all at once.  He refused to look down, counted the plant pots on doorsteps, remembered to breathe.

“I really had no idea.  I wish I had.”

He almost asked if that was so she could laugh at him with the others.  That the thought had even crossed his mind sickened him.  He closed his eyes for a moment, let his head drop.  If his unconscious thoughts could be so cruel and unfair, even towards her, then she deserved better.  But she must know that, and he was curious.  Ever the journalist.  He sighed, and ran his thumb over her knuckles.  “Why?”

She barely paused.  “Because we might not have wasted so much time.”  Her tone was so matter of fact that it took him a moment to realise what she was trying to say.  When the penny dropped, he opened his eyes and looked at her, trying to frown, trying to be serious so that he could quiz her properly, but unable to keep the delight from his face, and she laughed.  He remembered the first time he had heard her laugh, and his belly churned in the same way as it always did, and he listened to it for once, listened to the raw impulses that he usually kept down so successfully, and he kissed her.  Kissed her so hungrily that he felt light-headed, that for the first time in months he did not feel the urge to rearrange things to calm himself, but only wanted to feel  _more_.  But even in such a state, he was aware of the need to breathe, and he pulled back reluctantly, looking hard at her to commit this moment to memory.  "Well, Mr Brown," she said in the most deliciously husky tone he could imagine, "is it far to your rooms from here?"

Randall counted to three.  "Ten minutes or so."  He grinned, ever the wider as she grinned back at him.  "But quicker if we run!"

And as he grabbed her hand and they took off, and the silent streets echoed with their laughter.


End file.
